The Highest Point is Cold

The waning of this year
Brays on its downward arc - we hear
The groan of earth
The utter dearth

Of heat and sentience.
This is the wind's the cold's place.
We stagger through our days
Stricken but holding on.  Our gaze

Locks the horizon, we await the coming dawn.
Our hearts may be imprisoned but not done
With the battle of time's force and grind.
We want to be forearmed, forewarned

Of the blast of this new year
For the stars are aligned and we do not fear
The fight - we hold hope and right
Sentiments to our breasts.  This current blight

Will die with the death of those corroded
Days now wearing thin.  No sordid
Forebodings will prevent the year's turn.
We will not yearn

For what we never had and we scorn
What might have been for
Is beginning.
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